“Lucy, this isn’t funny anymore. In this cell was a huntsman, who had fractured his skull while hunting, and was perpetually hallooing after the hounds;—in that, the most melancholy of all, the grinning gibbering lunatic, the realization of "moody madness, laughing wild. It’s the sort of way a woman always does gloss over her ethical positions. But it doesn’t alter the situation. He cherished her. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. What else could he do? You can’t kick up a scene on the spur of the moment in the face of such conflicting values as he had before him. .
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